


Head Shot

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 06:16:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7606918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Here's another prompt for you! Root and Shaw are on a mission together. Things happen and Root winds up with a gun to her head. Shaw has a clear shot, but she won't take it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Head Shot

As Sameen Shaw lies with her fingers laced behind her head staring up at the cracking, yellow tiles above her, she feels her back press into the cool metal of the subway terminal's lone bench and finds her eyelids persistently droop. All is quiet save for the distant rumble of normal life that does not reach her chaotic world, and she acknowledges it as little more than white noise as the crumbling grout and black subway tunnel fall in and out darkness with each extended blink. Has it been a second since she's opened her eyes or ten minutes? With no one else around, Shaw is untouched by the persistent hands of time. Instead, she drifts into sleep, nowhere to be, no cover to maintain, and no reason to walk all the way home.

"Hey, Baby," Root's familiar voice coaxes Shaw from the depths of sleep as she feels a presence settle in the space just above her. A shadow forms before her eyelids, and a moment later, Shaw feels a warm hand rest against her cheek. Opening her eyes slowly, Shaw finds Root's slender face and endless rings of brown hair coming into focus. She swallows, mouth dry, and runs her tongue quickly over parched lips. From just above her, Root gives her a toothy grin. "Tired?"

With a soft sigh and the raise of her brows, Shaw concurs. Seeing Root before her, taking in the yellow light from above that encircles Root's head like a halo and brings fire to her hair, Shaw forgets she's at the station and not home. Suppressing a yawn, Shaw moves her hand over Root's, pulling it from her cheek and entwining their fingers slowly.

"Wanna join me?" Shaw asks, voice scratchy with sleep, and a dazzling spark lights Root's coffee eyes.

* * *

 

"How come you never greet _me_ like that when _I_ wake you up?" Reese cracks from across the station, and reality finally crashes in on Shaw. With a quick blink, Shaw realizes once more where she is, and immediately swings her legs to the ground to sit, clearing her throat with a quick, dry cough. Root, barely able to suppress the giddy joy in her features at Shaw's affection- especially before the team- takes a seat at Shaw's side. Shaw brushes her hair from her eyes, turning to drape her arm over the back of the bench, gaze burning on Reese. Reese watches her with a smile glinting in his eyes before he casts his view down to Harold, who sits typing at his desk. Shaw's attention flickers to Bear, who lays silently on his dog bed, chewing on what's left of a single bunny slipper.

"Time is it?" Shaw grumbles, running her tongue over her teeth in annoyance.

"Five thirty," Root replies, sliding into Shaw until their arms touch on the bench, Root's head resting on her forearm as she gazes dotingly at Shaw. Shaw can feel her gaze, yet with Reese's comment in mind, she refuses to face her. Her ears, nonetheless, grow hot.

"Ms. Groves- Shaw- you might want to join us for a moment," Harold calls to them, back arched as he leans into his computer, the sound of keystrokes as constant and quick as the heart of a hummingbird. With a fractional glance Root's way, Shaw slips from the bench, walking with Root over to the men and leaning against the desk to peer at the screen.

Code runs too rapidly to read in the background, boxes surging open and running equally speedy strings of letters and numbers before closing themselves again, and Shaw is barely able to pull her attention towards the photo still of a man on the screen before them, small white text below his name unmoving yet nearly impossible to read. His hair is dark and slicked back, grin well practiced and oily, with blue eyes cold as ice.

"Gary Gilmore, thirty-three, unmarried, no children, and a known thief for hire" Harold rattles off monotonously, smacking the enter key to cue a document with more words and yet another picture. This one reveals him in an orange jumpsuit, bony fingers curled around a jail identification plate. _Name and number._ "In and out of federal institutions over the past few years, until he suddenly dropped from all radar. No current residence, no credit cards or jobs, and he's skipped parole for the past six months."

"So... what? We're going to go looking for _this_ guy?" Shaw asks quizzically, not quite seeing the point. _At worst he's stealing under another name, at best he's cleaned up and started new somewhere else._

"We've found him," Harold responds, clicking a few times to reveal surveillance stills of their very missing man. "Well, the _Machine_ has."

"And She picked up something pretty interesting," Reese continues, nodding to Harold as if to usher him along. Harold, shooting him a less than pleased glare, rolls his eyes and brings another picture forward. In this one, Gilmore is accompanied by an unmistakable face.

John Greer.

"Do you think Greer hired him for something?" Root asks, hands on the back of Harold's chair as she reads over his shoulder.

"It's hard to tell," Harold responds, eyes glued to the screen, its pale light casting his face a ghostly hue. "With their communications mostly dealt with in private, the Machine doesn't quite have all the information."

"Which is where we come in," Shaw concludes, all eyes falling on her. Her eyes flicker between Harold and Reese, yet she is unable to ignore Root's doting smile from the corner of her eye.

"Yes," Harold agrees, gaze once more at the computer. "From what information we do have, Mr. Gilmore will be attending New York's Police Banquet tonight at the Resorts World Casino in the Queens."

"And what reason would a hiding criminal have for visiting an event swarming with _cops_?" Shaw muses aloud.

"That's what _we're_ going to figure out," Reese responds, blue eyes set on her. "Fusco and I are going to attend as guests, but uh, the two of you are going to have to figure something out."

"Since when has _that_ ever been a problem?" Root muses with a grin, voice swirling with the excitement of their latest challenge. Reese cracks her a half smirk, then- smoothing down the front of his dark gray suit- he starts for the station's exit.

"I'm gonna go get Lionel. Make sure he picks a tie without a stain on it." With that, he is gone, leaving Root and Shaw to share a quick conversation in a look. _With so many feds in one place off duty_ , Shaw's eyes contemplate, _it's the perfect night for some criminal activity. But why go to the place where all of the police will be?_

__________\ If Your Number's Up /__________

With a final heave, Root and Shaw manage to toss an unconscious caterer into a dumpster behind the Resorts World Casino, grunting slightly as they throw him up and over the dumpster's lip. They hear him crash against the metal siding before he settles amongst the trash bags. By his side is another caterer, also down for the count, both stripped to their undershirts and boxers. Under the cover of night, Shaw begins to pull on the milky white, button-up shirt, readjusting the silver tie hanging loosely around her neck. Slipping on the starched pants next, Shaw quickly conceals her weapons in the waist, tugging the shirt down over them with an air of satisfaction.

"That's a good look for you, Sam," Root chimes from her side, shooting Shaw a quick wink. Shaw, turning to her, finds Root fumbling with the buttons of her dress shirt in the dark, and after a moment too long spent watching, Shaw forces her gaze away, jaw clenched.

"Just hurry up," Shaw mutters, stalking briskly to the nearest door. "I think it's starting." After a few more seconds, Root appears at Shaw's side, and they push through the metal door into a narrow, dimly lit hallway. _So much for a grand space_ , Shaw thinks, casually walking across the white linoleum tiles towards the sounds emanating from a room further off. In the silence of the space, their heels click against the floor with deafening force.

"Ms. Shaw, Ms. Groves, can you hear me?" Harold asks through their ear pieces.

"Loud and clear, Harry," Root chirps pleasantly, eyes flashing with humor as he sighs at the pet name.

"I've done some more digging, and it appears that the object of interest to Mr. Gilmore is a flash drive."

"So we have to find a single, _inch long_ drive in the middle of over a _hundred_ people?" Shaw asks distastefully.

"No," he responds, voice muffling a moment as he calls out to Bear. "It should be in a metallic briefcase. And- if what I've found is correct- the case is nearly indestructible."

"Any idea what's on the drive?" Root asks, eyes on Shaw as the two pick up their pace. As they come closer to the end of the hall, the sounds from the other room become more distinct. Music playing, voices, and laughter.

"It's-" Harold types- "It's... oh dear." All goes silent, causing both women to slow, then stop, Shaw's skin prickling with anticipation. "It's a code that can be used to strengthen Samaritan's search capacity _immensely_ ," Harold tells them in a grim tone. Shaw, unsure of what the repercussions could be, asks.

"What'll it do?"

"Imagine a system that can infiltrate any electronic device it has access to- tackling any encryption in place to prevent security breaches- and then will destroy whatever it is programmed to find, and anyone who was in possession of it."

"Sounds like Samaritan already," Shaw replies, beginning to walk once again. "What's the difference?"

"The difference is that countless _lives_ will be taken for merely coming into _contact_ with whatever Samaritan wants to target," Harold shoots back.

"And they'll probably target the Machine," Root informs, voice turning to ice.

"Precisely," Harold says, "meaning that anyone the Machine has hired- no matter how minimal the task- will be in _extreme_ danger. Even the _custodians_ at Thornhill- the people who have _no_ idea what the company is other than a job that puts food on the table- will be hunted." A chill runs down Shaw's spine at the thought of what might happen if this were possible. With the shake of her head, she pushes the thought away.

"We'll get it," Shaw nearly growls, pushing through a plush red door with a large, circular window. It swings open in a grand arch, revealing the Police Banquet in all of its true glory.

Unlike the dingy hallway through which they'd entered, this space is large and lavish. Tan and orange walls line an enormous space, with pillars running the length of the hall, their sides reflecting the lights in shimmering reds and oranges. The carpet is lush and red, with white tables scattered throughout, each filled to the brim with police in suits and dresses. Glasses tink with forks scraping against plates and laughter resonating from every corner. Music spills from speakers scattered in the rafters, and a small stage has been prepared in the front of the hall, complete with a microphone and a banner that reads "Seventh Annual New York Police Banquet."

Peering around, Shaw finds a cart filled to the brim with trays holding drinks. Taking one and handing another to Root, the two begin to weave in and out of the circular tables, handing out beverages per request. Finally, after about five minutes of searching, Shaw spots Reese from a few tables away, and- grabbing Root's wrist- pulls her in that direction.

"Well don't you two look nice," Fusco greets with an amused chuckle. "Say, you serving? I'll take a chicken platter." Shaw, smiling tightly at him, keeps an edge in her eyes that leaks deviously into her voice.

" _Careful_ , Lionel," she says below her breath. "It's my first day on the job, and I'm a little nervous. It'd be a shame if I dropped this tray of chardonnay right on you." He shoots her a hostile sneer, and she laughs. "Accidents happen," she tells him, and he shakes his head.

"We're looking for a briefcase," Root informs Reese, placing a drink before him.

"That shouldn't be _hard_ ," he responds with a flare of sarcasm. Root rolls her eyes. "Keep in touch," he adds, and she shoots him a smile.

"Well, boys, we gotta run," Root tells them with a sympathetic pout, tussling Fusco's hair just enough to put it in slight disarray as she walks from the table.

"Watch it, Cocoa Puffs," Fusco huffs, hands instantly coming to his head to push the curly mess down. Reese barely suppresses a smile.

Shaw and Root separate, Shaw canvasing the left half of the hall as Root takes to the right; however, this does not grant Shaw a moment of alone-time.

"After the mission, how does heading back to my place sound?" Root asks, voice cool and clever in Shaw's ear- she can only hope Root has placed them on a private line.

"Is this _really_ the time to make plans?" Shaw deflects, light smirk toying at the corner of her mouth.

"There's no time like the present, Sameen," Root throws back, and Shaw rolls her eyes. The front doors surge open, revealing a group of five men. Leading the other four is a tall, lanky man in a black suit and tie, black hair slicked back and blue eyes large and carnivorous. She recognizes him instantly as Gilmore.

"I got eyes on our number," Shaw says, peering behind her to see both Reese and Fusco turn towards her, eyes scanning the entrance nonchalantly. She watches the group walk into the banquet, eyes studying each man, trying to pinpoint weak spots and concealed weapons. Gilmore struts with cocky purpose, flashing smiles to anyone who makes eye contact as he enjoys their oblivious disregard of his identity. Plastering on a smile and heading his way, Shaw stops him, tray before her in her right hand as she stealthily toys with her phone with the left. _Fingers crossed I'm hitting the right buttons,_ she says silently to herself.

"Can I offer you a drink, sir?" She asks him in a syrup-sweet tone, batting her eyes. He looks her over, eyes scanning her as if looking hard enough could reveal what's under her tie and blouse. After a moment, he chuckles to himself.

"With someone as stunning as you asking, how could I refuse?" Taking a glass from her tray, he begins to slug it down, Shaw stands stationary until she's certain the group is out of eye and ear shot. Shifting the tray, she protrudes her left hand from her pocket, cell screen glowing a successful green with the completed blue jack on his phone. And already, before she has a moment to think, text messages begin filing out.

**_GILMORE_ : Here, where is it?**

**_????_ : Left exit out of the hall. Take a right, left, left. Third door has paper instructions. Manila envelope.**

With that, Gilmore's phone is powered off, and he gives the slight tilt of his head to direct the men where to go. Shaw waits, fingernails scraping against the drink tray with anticipation as she watches the group escape unnoticed.

"Root," Shaw says silently into her ear wig. "Drop your tray and meet me at the left hall exit."

"You got it," Root coos in response, leaving Shaw with the faintest smirk growing on her features. "What are we gonna do?"

"Would you like it more if I told you, or left it a surprise?" Shaw counters, eyes flicking across the room to catch a look at Root's robust grin.

"Are we going to have to listen to the two of you act like this _all_ night?" Fusco complains.

"Feel free to leave whenever you'd like," Shaw retorts, humor rolling pleasurably across her tongue. She hears him huff, and her smirk deepens. Placing her tray down on the nearest empty table, Shaw pushes the side exit open just in time for Root to slip through, and together they start down the hall.

"This should be fun," Root remarks conversationally, swiping her firearms from her waist band and clicking both safeties off. Shaw shoots a quick glance her way but says nothing, eyes trained straight ahead, ears pricked for the sound of footsteps as they evanesce. Withdrawing her handgun, Shaw keeps it low, muscles taut and mind focused. When Root bumps her arm affectionately, Shaw nearly fires.

" _Someone's_ jumpy," Root tuts playfully, eyes looking Shaw over, light smirk flickering on her features. Shaw, recognizing the look, feels her ears begin to burn, all the while her teeth grind with vexation. "Don't worry, Sam," Root continues as they turn left, trotting towards a large translucent tarp hung before a gaping doorway, "I'll protect you."

With that, Shaw can feel the enraged flames leaping in her eyes, lips pulling to a sneer. Shoving past both Root and the tarp, Shaw finds the air instantly cooler, the blackness of the night almost blinding, and she has to blink a few times before the darkness gives way to small blobs of slightly darker shapes.

"They working construction here, Harold?" Shaw asks below her breath, eyes scanning the area as far as her vision permits. Shaw hears typing, then silence.

"Yes, it appears the Resorts World Casino is in the midst of an expansion off the East Wing. All construction has been cancelled for the night.”

"I can see that," she grumbles back, taking a step forward and hearing the clank of mystery metal skittering in response. A moment later, Shaw feels a hand at either shoulder, Root's hot breath at her ear.

"She's decrypting the construction's security camera system," Root informs quietly, so soft in fact, Shaw almost doubts she's heard anything at all. "But I think we should-"

"I'll go left; you go right," Shaw interrupts, heat still stinging her face. Before Root has time to refute, Shaw is gone, weapon drawn and focus being funneled back into the mission. _'I'll protect you'?_ Shaw recites to herself bitterly, _I do the protecting._ With a silent huff of indignation, Shaw narrows her eyes, steps inaudible as she maneuvers around large crates and sleeping machines. The cold picks at her fingers and collects her breath in white puffs that drift purposefully towards the black sky. Between the metal bones of the annex's iron skeleton, not a star seems to peak out, and the moon is covered with a thick gray cloud.

Suddenly, the sound of guns firing and bullets ricochetting off metal erupts in Shaw's ears, and she instinctively crouches, honing in on the direction of the firefight. Short sparks like matches struck and immediately snuffed out call to her from across the construction, and Shaw immediately rushes towards the right, scolding herself for leaving Root alone. Gun trained straight ahead, Shaw no longer worries about the click of her wedge heels against the poured concrete, her only goal to make it to Root as quickly as possible. Then, just as quickly as it began, all sounds of gunfire cease. Whether Shaw would like to admit it or not, a queasy ache starts to grow in the pit of her stomach.

Pace slowing ever so slightly, she continues to weave her way towards the direction of the last fire, the landscape immediately awash with the pale white glow of the moon. Stepping out from behind a large Bobcat, Shaw finds their target and aims her firearm directly between his eyes.

Then, she sees the entire picture.

A bodyguard at either side, guns up and pointed to at her, with the other two twitching as freshly swatted flies in the shadows just behind. Gary Gilmore with a glistening briefcase in one hand, coupled with a glock pressed painfully into Root’s curls of brown hair. His other arm is wrapped tightly around Root's shoulders and neck, holding her snuggly in place as he burrows the barrel of the gun deeper, and she winces. Shaw narrows her eyes threateningly at him, sneer matching his smirk, and raging temper ready to smother the cocky glow from his icy eyes. Her heart begins to pound, blood sloshing in her ears, as her focus splits between Gilmore and Root.

 _Root_.

Her hands grip Gilmore's arm tightly, nails undoubtably digging painfully through his blazer and the skin below. Her teeth are clenched, nose crinkled and brow furrowed as she throws her shoulder roughly against his in an attempt to loosen his grip. _Root. Weaponless. Defenseless._ The mere thought leaves a coldness coursing through Shaw's veins.

Reese calls into the earpiece, wondering where they are- how it's going- yet Shaw cannot hear it past the constant rush of blood in her ears, every part of her from fingers to toes pulsing with rage.

And still, he smiles.

"How's it looking for me?" Gilmore asks her in a cool tone, not an ounce of fear holding him.

"I've got a clear shot," Shaw responds, matching him, "but even if I didn't, with the size of your head an _amateur_ couldn't miss from this range." Gilmore's smirk grows into an oily grin as he laughs. Shaw's tongue rolls across her teeth in irritation, coldness emanating from every pore as she wants nothing more than for this man to crack.

Flicking her gaze to either side of Gilmore, Shaw assess his men quickly, then relaxes her shoulders, slouching the slightest bit to show an air of ease. Of confidence. _Two can play this game_ , she remarks silently to herself. She clears her throat. "Tweedle Dee over there still has his safety on-" Shaw tilts her head to the right- "and Tweedle Dum's silencer's hanging off.” Shaw tilts her head to the left. “Some help you've got there."

Bewildered, the two men stop to glance at their- despite Shaw's bluff- pristine weapons. Within the short span of those seconds, Shaw swings her gun away from Gilmore, shooting them both and training her weapon back on the thief before the two even hit the ground. When they do, groans of agony emit like tragic background music to their standoff. Gilmore's grin diminishes slightly, yet the giddy light never leaves his eyes.

With his flimsy grip on the gun, plus the awkward bulk of the briefcase, Shaw has a more than clear shot of Gilmore. Yet, as she steadies the weapon at his forehead, she cannot bring herself to pull the trigger. Not for his sake- she couldn't care less about his well being- but for Root's. Even as she does the math over and over in her head, the outcome more than apparently in her favor, Shaw cannot- _will_ not- take this shot. Nonetheless, she allows her finger to dance with the trigger.

"What, not as good of a shot as you thought?" Gilmore taunts, shifting the briefcase in his fingers while yanking Root closer. Root winces against the icy metal pressed to her temple, yet when her eyes open, they are clear and directed only at Shaw. Then, she mouths three words.

_Take._

_The._

_Shot._

But Shaw can't. Despite knowing she could make it- that the briefcase would be secured in seconds- she cannot take this shot. _Why can't I take this shot?_

"Guess not," Gilmore answers for her. "So, why don't you just put that gun down like a good girl, and kick it over here?" Shaw hears his words, but her eyes never leave Root's.

_Take._

_The._

_Shot._

Slowly, with smooth but sluggish movements, Shaw withdraws her finger from the trigger, pulling her right hand away from the gun as she begins to crouch. Flicking the safety back on the weapon, Shaw places it delicately on the ground, then begins to stand back up.

"That's it," Gilmore coos, "That's right. Now kick it over here. _Right_ here. _Good_ , that's _very_ good."

Shaw watches Root's eyes, sees them overflow with anger, lips pressing together as she checks Gilmore's shoulder once more in retaliation.

"Now, come over here to Robert- Tweedle Dee, I believe you called him- and take the zip ties from his back pocket. Then, step back to where you are now." Shaw complies, all the while feeling the resentment in Root's eyes singing her skin. Finally, Shaw has no choice but to look to Gilmore, unable to stand Root's gaze any longer. She tightens them around her wrists before her as instructed, silent all the while her head runs noisy circles. _Why couldn't you've just taken the shot- you should've taken the shot- take the shot._

______\ We'll Find You /_______

"While I've got you here, you might as well tell me your name," Gilmore tells Shaw.

Silence.

Shaw sees a tick of annoyance cross his face as he waits.

Silence.

Tilting his head to the side, he wraps his finger more snuggly to the trigger, turning it ever so slightly as his eyes harden.

"Sameen."

" _Sameen_ ," he repeats, rolling it about his tongue lavishly. "Sameen like ' _precious_ '," his smile returns, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. "How delectable."

Just then, a ding erupts between them, and the smart watch on Gilmore's right wrist casts a blinding white light against his face. Eyes flickering down to the message, his smile widens.

"Looks like my ride's finally here," he sighs, the small screen going dark as he begins to back away. Shaw matches him stride for stride, making sure to never get any closer, nor any farther away. Neither's eyes ever leave the other.

They make it through the labyrinth of cement bags and wooden beams, reaching the side of the road where a running, black SUV awaits- windows tinted. Together, the three of them continue towards the vehicle until Gilmore's back is pressed to the body just behind the back door. From within, someone opens it, leaving mere inches between him and escape.

Realizing this- and knowing what Gilmore's escape with the briefcase means- Root begins thrashing insistently, throwing Gilmore against the car repeatedly from her efforts. Shaw wants to spit at her to stop. _After all this, God forbid the gun accidentally goes off and kills her._

"Well," Gilmore sighs, lapping up these last few moments like a heat sick dog to water, "this has been fun, and I'm sorry my dear Sameen, but I do have to run." Shaw says nothing; merely waits for him to release Root. Only, he doesn't. Instead, he peers to the car with thought, then turns his wicked gaze back to Shaw, relishing this power too much to stop. "But, before I go, would you like to know what I'm thinking?"

Shaw doesn't answer.

"I'm thinking that I should just kill her anyway. _Bang_." He smiles. "Red ribbons all over the sidewalk. How would _that_ make you _feel_?"

To his disbelief, Shaw smirks.

"How would it make me _feel_?" Shaw echoes dauntingly. "It _wouldn't_ make me _feel_." She takes a step closer, and Gilmore's eyes flash with surprise; he readjusts his grip on the gun. "You see Gilmore," Shaw continues with a dangerous glint in her eyes, "I'm a sociopath. We generally don't tend to _feel_ much. Like, for example-" she tilts her head to the side, gaze never leaving him- "if you _kill_ her, I won't feel much when _I_ kill _you_."

"When _you_ kill _me_?" He scoffs, although a soft tendril of fear snakes its way around his heart.

Shaw nods grimly. "That's right. Because if you kill her, you've just made yourself an enemy. And you _don't_ want me to be your enemy.”

"Do you _really_ think your words are going to _scare_ me?" He asks, voice hitching with the slightest tremors of nervousness, that same little fear slithering up his throat.

"I don't know," Shaw responds honestly with the shrug of her shoulders. "But what I _do_ know, is that when I'm killing you- slowly and more excruciatingly than your twisted mind can even _begin_ to imagine- you will be _very_ scared."

Gilmore swallows hard, hand readjusting once more as he shifts the weight of the briefcase, fear swallowing his eyes and constricting his chest. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but not a sound is uttered. So, with a smirk that grows ever darker, Shaw continues.

"But, before you go, you wanna know what _I'm_ thinking?"

After a moment that drags along with the length of eternity, Gilmore gives a single, grave nod.

"When you're broken and begging for it all to stop, I won't feel sorry for you. I won't feel _anything_ at all." This closing line causes him to cough, and his heart is nearly visible as it hammers through his chest, all the while his eyes grow wide with a dawning sense of dread, knowing every word to be true. Cheery, egotistical mood forgotten, Gilmore scrambles into the backseat, shoving Root roughly to the ground in the process.

Tires squeal, a door slams, and within seconds the SUV is nothing more than a dot at the end of the roadway. In a few quick strides, Shaw comes to kneel at Root's side just as Root rolls onto her back at the edge of the sidewalk, palms scraped and jaw already beginning to bruise.

"What the hell _was_ that," Root demands, sitting up. Shaw watches her without a word, taking in just how animated Root is. How _alive_ Root is. "You had a clear shot."

"Bluffing," Shaw responds with a shrug, breaking her gaze away from Root to peer down the road.

"No, you weren't," Root retorts, and Shaw forces her eyes back, watching the anger in Root's gaze bubble and fizz until only an underlying curiosity remains. "She told me you had a clear shot. Why didn't you take it?"

It's a question Shaw'd been asking herself over and over this entire time. _Because I'm not some all seeing Ai?_ Shaw shoots back defensively in her head. _Because I couldn't know with the amount of certainty that She could?_ _That there could have still been some possibility of it all going wrong?_ Shaw realizes with striking clarity how she could not have let that happen. How the possibility of his gun going off and killing Root, or some fluke that caused Shaw to hit Root instead- no matter how slim- was too great. _That despite what I told Gilmore, if you died, I would feel something?_

Yet, even with the rapid influx of answers flooding Shaw's head, she replies with none of them. Instead, she extends her bound wrists towards Root with the short raise of her brows.

"More fun this way," Shaw lies choppily, watching as Root cuts through the tie with a knife taken from her boot. With the restraints off, Shaw kneads her wrists, eyes tugging back to Root's. "Gotta spice things up."

And, despite Shaw's intentions or beliefs, she finds Root smiling at the response, eyes warming as she dips her head in closer to Shaw's. Shaw wonders if she's completely forgotten about the briefcase, but decides now is not the time to remind Root of their mission.

"Do me a favor and save that attitude for the bedroom," Reese interrupts, slight humor in his tone as the two hear it through their ear wigs. Root's grin expands, all the while Shaw's ears grow hot. "We gotta find that suit case. _Now_."

"And how do you plan to do _that_?" Shaw retorts sourly, trying to dispel of her fluster. Root's overly affectionate gaze makes it increasingly difficult. Another black SUV pulls up beside them, halting with a screech of the tires, and the front window is rolled down, revealing Reese at the wheel with Lionel riding shotgun.

"Harold's got a trail on the city's cameras. Let's go." Without a moment's pause, Root and Shaw scramble to their feet, throw open the back door, and step inside. Reaching under the seat, Shaw's hand wraps around a gun- one of the many stocked throughout the vehicle- and smiles.


End file.
